


galaxies away (a home to return to)

by aerixlee



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Fluff, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Introspection, Japanese Shiro (Voltron), Keith & Krolia (Voltron) on the Space Whale, Keith (Voltron)-centric, Korean Keith (Voltron), Krolia (Voltron) is a Good Parent, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Season/Series 08 Compliant, Post-War, Pre-Relationship, Team as Family, personally i'd die for hunk, shiro pines so hard he breaks something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29986866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerixlee/pseuds/aerixlee
Summary: [Keith: is blowing off fifty dollars for a piece of ginger root worth it][Hunk: ?????? what the fuck no]_______or: After the war, Keith explores the Earthen side of his identity. Featuring Korean food, love, and family.
Relationships: Hunk & Keith (Voltron), Keith & Krolia (Voltron), Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 105





	galaxies away (a home to return to)

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first time i've ever used the fluff tag.
> 
> the most self-indulgent shit i have ever, ever written. and i know i always say that, but i seriously mean it this time. it should almost count as a warning. i'm a little embarrassed. it balances out, though, because it was also a practice in writing romance and happiness! which i apparently almost never write! at all!
> 
> i'm korean-american, which is why this is absolutely ridiculous and disgustingly self-indulgent. i didn't look anything up for this, so all inaccuracies are entirely on me and my perceptions of my own experiences. however !!! you should absolutely be able to enjoy without knowing anything about korean culture. this is honestly more a piece about love (familial, platonic, and romantic) over anything else, and if i'm being honest, the korean part of this is more of a way to talk about said love. if you're worried about it getting a little heavy on things you're not familiar with, i assure you that that will not be the case given keith's own lack of knowledge.
> 
> (that being said, if you *are* korean, this one is for you <3)
> 
> this was an absolute blast to write. i hope you enjoy reading as much as i enjoyed writing it !! <3

They’ve been on the space whale for something like a year when it happens.

Keith is walking, foraging for plants and roots and whatever else probably won’t kill them if they try to eat it, when the vision hits. He doesn’t even flinch when the landscape is washed in golds and oranges, cooler tones replaced by a familiar interior. The desert shack, flooded with light from the setting sun.

Keith pauses for a moment, still, stupidly, holding a handful of plants. He keeps them in his grip, being careful not to move around, very aware that he’s still technically on the space whale.

It takes him a moment to figure out whose vision this is. His dad is sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at a picture in his hand, which doesn’t help the question at all.

Then Krolia walks in, and Keith knows.

“Hey,” says Krolia quietly, slipping a hand over Keith’s dad’s shoulder. His dad looks up, smiling as Krolia sits down beside him. It’s terribly domestic, and something in Keith’s stomach clenches tightly at the sight. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” says Keith’s dad. “Just… thinking.”

Krolia hums, a soft thing. Waiting.

God, they both look so-- so _young,_ just two adults in love, and Keith feels like he’s intruding on this, on what was, what could’ve been. He looks around, searching for the fuzzy haze that tends to come over at the edges of his vision when these things are about to end, but they’re nowhere in sight.

“I told--” His dad cuts off, laughing a little, shaking his head. “My parents came here from Korea, you know. It’s a-- a country here on Earth. Really far away. I’ve never-- I never got the chance to visit. But they were always so _invested_ in my love life. They wanted me to have my wedding in Korea.”

“Some sight it would be,” says Krolia dryly, “if you introduced me as your wife.”

“Wife,” repeats Keith’s dad. “We’re not even going to get that.”

He chuckles, letting his head drop down. His face is darkened in the shadows as the sun continues to set, the clench of his jaw only emphasized with the contrast. “I think they would’ve liked you,” he says. “They’re dead, now, but they would’ve liked you a lot, I think. Once they got over you being an alien, of course.”

Krolia laughs. Her smile fades a little as she looks at the picture in Keith’s dad’s hand, and Keith finds himself stepping forward despite himself to get a better look.

It’s a family photo, taken in front of a suburban house with a driveway. There are two adults standing beside each other who must be Keith’s-- his _grandparents,_ fuck, because who else would they be? And there are two others in the front, two girls and a boy who has to be Keith’s dad.

He had siblings.

Keith had no idea.

“That’s me,” says Keith’s dad, pointing to the boy. “Those are my sisters. And my parents.”

“She looks like you,” Krolia says, blinking a little as her figure lands on the smaller girl. “Are you still in contact with them?”

“Jennifer and I stayed in touch after she went to college,” says Keith’s dad quietly. “But we haven’t talked since then. I don’t know how to contact her even if I would want to, and I’m not so sure that I would. And Christine-- we haven’t talked since our dad’s funeral. She never showed up to our mom’s.”

 _Oh,_ Keith thinks, and, dimly, he’s aware of how wide his eyes have gotten, how he’s stepped so much closer to the two of them, intruding on their privacy for his own selfish motives. He’s never thought about this kind of stuff before, has never considered that his dad might’ve had a life beyond the brief snapshot that Keith and Krolia got with him.

“What’s your name in your parents’ language?” asks Krolia curiously. She’s looking at Keith’s dad, now, not at the photo. “I want to know.”

There’s something almost melancholy in her eyes, like she understands a little more than what she’s saying. The corner of his dad’s lip tugs up a little. He turns his head a little to look at Krolia, and their eyes lock.

“Seong-ho,” he says, lips curving around the words so softly, so delicately, like he’s trying to treasure the sound as much as possible. Keith wonders when the last time he said it out loud was. “My name is Choi Seong-ho.”

And Keith thinks that Krolia must know at least a little bit of what his dad is thinking, that she knows something about the meaning of names and the connection to identity, because the last thing that Keith sees before the memory disappears is Krolia trying to pronounce it, the name sounding odd against her Galran tongue, and his dad’s smile widening until it’s brighter than the sun setting beneath the horizon.

When he comes to, kneeling on the forest floor, the plants crushed into a useless mess in his hands, he realizes that he’s crying.

_______________________

Keith doesn’t remember much from his childhood. What he has are mere fragments: a warm hand, quiet laughter, the rev of a motorcycle. The mischievous glimmer in his dad’s eye. How he kept a jar of cash buried in the ground by the shack just in case everything went to shit, because out in the desert, that was always a possibility, and Keith could never remember where they buried it when he was kicked out of the Garrison.

He sees more in the quantum abyss. And he’s a wreck after every single one.

There’s a flash of Keith’s dad splashing soy sauce into a full pan, a glimpse of chopped green onions and fresh white rice steaming in a pot. And Keith is never sure if these are his memories or Krolia’s, but sometimes there will be a murmured, _this was your mother’s favorite out of everything I made,_ or a bright, _sure you can’t take me up there with you as your personal chef?_ And it’s obvious, those times.

But sometimes it’s less obvious.

There are _I love you’_ s and _I miss you’_ s, _stay safe’_ s and _come home’_ s. Tear tracks on tired cheeks, soft hands caressing callused skin, and it’s never completely certain whose memory it is during those times. It’s usually Krolia, because Keith was much too young to have remembered all of these things, but sometimes…

Sometimes, Keith wants to pretend that at least a few of these are his.

“Your father made me try Earth food when I was on your planet,” says Krolia suddenly one day. They’re sitting by the campfire, a chunk of meat roasting in the flames while the wolf paces around, searching for a place to settle. “He said it was one of his mother’s recipes. It was good.”

It’s the first time she’s brought up his dad.

They have yet to talk about him. It’s still too sensitive of a topic, a shared wound between them that has reopened since the two of them reunited. Krolia is grieving, Keith knows, and he’s been waiting for her to bring him up on her own accord rather than pressing.

Because he was mad at her, at first. He was mad, very mad, and Krolia knew it, and Keith knew it, and even the fucking _wolf_ knew it, because he made it clear with every terse word, with every sentence spoken only with functional purpose. And though they talked about it, they still haven’t talked about everything, and there’s still that residual tension hovering just beneath the surface. His dad was a spot that would only aggravate an already inflamed topic, and neither were willing to breach it.

But right now, it’s comfortable. Warm. Almost domestic, even despite the circumstances.

Keith smiles a little. “Yeah?” he asks. “Do you remember what it was called?”

“Don’t know,” says Krolia, frowning. “But it was very good. Probably one of the best meals I’ve ever had. There were… noodles.”

“Lots of Earth foods have noodles,” Keith says diplomatically.

“And a sauce,” Krolia continues, as if he hadn’t spoken at all. She’s getting into it, now, eyes wandering as she falls deep into thought. “With these vegetables and some kind of meat. It was dark brown, almost black. He said it was made from… black beans? There were thin slices of green vegetable on top. I’d never tasted anything like it before, but he said it was almost equivalent to fast food in its accessibility and popularity where his parents came from.”

“Jjajangmyun,” Keith says immediately, definitely not getting the accent quite right. He’s not entirely sure where in his memory the word was pulled from, but he knows that it’s right. “I think-- I think Dad made it for me once, too. I just don’t remember it consciously.”

They’re both quiet for a moment.

“I think I’d like to have it again someday,” says Krolia softly, and neither of them are exactly careless with their words, so Keith knows that she means exactly what he thinks she does. He lets the implications of that settle in for a bit.

“I think I’d like to try it with you,” he says, equally as quiet.

The flames crackle merrily.

The wolf yawns.

_______________________

It’s funny, Keith thinks, how he can have traveled across the entire universe, and yet doesn’t know a single thing about his dad’s culture here on Earth.

He knows more about the planets in the Voltron coalition from hours of meetings, diplomatic discussions he’s been forced to sit in on even before he became the black paladin, and now that he _is_ the black paladin, he’s actually required to pay attention to the things being discussed. He can read enough Altean to get by, though he’s nowhere near as good as Pidge, can pull off a bit of the Galran dialect that Krolia speaks, but he doesn’t know a word of Korean.

Come to think of it, Keith isn’t even sure if he’s ever even had Korean food. It’s not like there was a vast supply of food out in the desert, but considering the amount of vaguely questionable alien delicacies he’s had to stomach over the years, it’s a bit concerning.

No, scratch that. Keith is genuinely distressed about this.

He doesn’t get a chance to think about it, even after the war has ended, even once everyone is back up and walking around, no longer bed-ridden or on the verge of death. By that point, he’s roped into mountains of diplomacy and paperwork, and though he might not have it as bad as Shiro, he’s still obligated by his position to do much more than he’s used to _._

He hadn’t talked to Krolia about the memory that he saw on the space whale, having been unsure what he would even say about it, especially since they were hardly talking about his dad at all. There was something about the memory that felt so personal that Keith almost wants to keep it to himself. Just for a little while.

Which is stupid. It isn’t even his memory.

“Okay,” says Hunk, dropping his hands onto the counter across from Keith and effectively breaking him out of his thoughts. Keith barely reacts, merely looking up from the datapad that he wasn’t working on at all and raising an eyebrow.

“What?” he asks. It’s in a more friendly tone that he reserves exclusively for Hunk, because of all of the paladins, he’s the only one that Keith would be seriously broken up about making cry. “I’m busy.”

“It’s your turn to come up with ideas for dinner night,” Hunk says, sitting down. He holds up his fingers, ticking them off one by one as he goes. “Pidge already went for the fast food approach the other week; Lance got his time in the kitchen with his family’s recipes the week before; Allura, Romelle, and Coran helped me figure out Earthen equivalents for Altean ingredients the week before _that,_ the results of which, by the way, completely redeemed them in my eyes after literal years of just food goo. And Shiro doesn’t have time to be in the kitchen this week with me, so he’s going next time. So it’s your turn.”

It’s not that Keith is opposed to this project of Hunk’s. It’s good for them, all of them, and it’s not a surprise that Hunk’s love language is food, especially if it means that he gets to learn more about his friends through it. The dinner with the Alteans, despite the dishes not being completely accurate to their origins, caused all three of them to burst into tears at the table, resulting in a simultaneously pleased and overwhelmed Hunk doing his best to comfort them. There were similar reactions with Pidge and Lance’s dinners, though Pidge’s emotions may, admittedly, have come more from two full days without sleep rather than the persisting existence of fast food restaurants on Earth.

Either way, Pidge fell asleep afterwards, and Hunk privately told Keith that he considered that his greatest success yet.

Keith already knows what Shiro’s going to do. He’s been talking about how he’s been craving yakitori for weeks now, and though Keith’s only had it once, when Shiro took him to this one Japanese restaurant before Kerberos, it’s by far one of his favorite foods. Though, admittedly, the bar for what qualifies as “good food” for him is low. Shiro had complained the whole time about how it didn’t taste like it does in Japan, but Keith would have been a fool not to see the glimmer of happiness in his eyes throughout the whole meal.

Point being: everyone who has gone so far has had an emotional connection to the food that they’ve presented. Which is exactly why Keith has been dreading this moment since the second Hunk brought it up for the first time.

He has nothing to offer to the table. Literally.

But Hunk is pouting, because of _course_ he is, and Keith sighs heavily. He sets down his datapad, folding his arms as he fixes Hunk with a look, preparing to thoroughly and completely crush Hunk’s hopes.

“I grew up in the desert, miles away from any supermarket,” he says flatly. “After that, I spent years in foster homes and in the orphanage, where food wasn’t exactly easy to come by, either, and the food that we did get wasn’t good. Then I lived at the Garrison, and Garrison cafeteria food isn’t exactly five star restaurant quality, and after _that,_ I went back to the desert, and I lived off of instant ramen and microwave foods for a year. I don’t have any comfort foods, Hunk.”

Hunk looks absolutely crestfallen, and Keith thinks that he maybe might have been a little bit too harsh. He might’ve mellowed out during his two years on the space whale, but it’s not like his entire personality was suddenly going to change in that time period. Besides, two years with no one to talk to but his alien mother and a giant space wolf didn’t exactly do wonders to his already suffering social skills.

That doesn’t change the fact that he feels bad.

“Oh,” says Hunk. He frowns, then snaps his fingers. “I never said it had to be a comfort food, though! Is there anything that you want to try? We’ve been away from Earth for _years,_ man. There has to be something.”

Is there something? He’d just been thinking about--

… Oh.

Keith opens his mouth, then snaps it shut, feeling his cheeks go red with embarrassment. Hunk nods encouragingly, looking at him expectantly.

“There, um.” Keith coughs lightly. This feels alarmingly personal to share. “My dad was Korean. He, uh, died before I could really-- could learn anything about that. I’ve never actually… had Korean food before? Which is weird considering that we’ve been all over the universe, but--”

Keith cuts himself off, feeling his cheeks go even redder. He slouches a little in his seat, completely ready to steal an MFE and get the hell out of here. But Hunk _lights up._

“Oh man,” he says, grinning so widely that Keith is a little surprised his entire face hasn’t split into two. “Dude. That’s _perfect._ I can absolutely work with that.”

“Yeah?” Keith asks, blinking in surprise.

“Uh, _yeah,”_ says Hunk. He clasps his hands together, eyes sparkling. “I’ll find some recipes, you pick out what you think you’ll like, and we can go get the ingredients together!”

“Oh,” says Keith. He looks down at his datapad, then back up at Hunk. “Wow, I, uh. I wasn’t expecting you to be so excited about this.”

Hunk leans forward, grabbing Keith’s shoulders. His gaze is so intense that it’s a bit disconcerting, and Keith goes a little cross-eyed with the effort of maintaining eye contact.

“Dude,” he says. “I know approximately four things about you, and we’ve lived together in the middle of outer space for years. This is going to make you happy, and this is going to make me happy.”

“Oh,” says Keith again. Hunk squints at him, lips pressed together, then lets go.

“Sorry,” he says, genuine. “Was that too much?”

“No, I--” Keith breaks off, ducking his head a little. He shakes his head “No, you’re fine. I just, uh. I’m not that used to people being so excited about things that get me excited."

Hunk stares at him for a few moments, long enough that it starts to get awkward.

“Okay,” Hunk says, walking around the counter. “I’m going to hug you now. Let me know if you want me to stop.”

“Okay,” Keith says, and then he’s wrapped up in one of Hunk’s trademark embraces, all-encompassing and cuddly and soft. “Uh. Thanks.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” says Hunk into his shoulder. “Just take the hug.”

Keith takes the hug.

_______________________

The internet is another one of those things that Keith took for granted in space. The inability to simply look up information at a moment’s whim was a loss that he felt acutely, and it’s with an incredible sense of satisfaction that he sits down at a Garrison-provided laptop with a mission in mind. Recipes.

Keith doesn’t even know what he likes.

 _Shiro,_ his mind supplies, helpfully. Which would be funny except for the fact that it’s painfully true. Not to mention that Shiro has almost definitely had Korean food before and certainly knows Keith’s tastes in food better than he does. But Keith feels like this is something that he should be doing himself, Hunk merely there to make sure that the food actually comes out decent, so he stays seated.

His fingers hover over the keyboard, tapping lightly on the keys but not pressing down, as he thinks.

His mind keeps coming back to the memory he saw on the space whale.

_Choi Seong-ho._

Before he knows it, he’s typing the name into the search bar. Nothing pops up.

He tries again, this time with his dad’s English name. There are several results, more than he expected. He’s listed among a group of others in the articles describing the fire that took his life, and he’s included in the fire station’s website.

It’s funny. All of this alien life out there in the universe, a ten thousand year old war waging around at the time, and Keith’s dad died here on Earth, saving people from a fire. Despite the circumstances, the lack of recognition, it’s one of the most honorable ways Keith can think a person could go.

Keith remembers his dad’s expression when he said his Korean name, how the slightest of wistful smiles had grown into something blindly bright, and he aches a little.

 _Jennifer Choi,_ he types, this time, in a haze. One of his dad’s sisters’ names. His _aunt’s_ name. He’s already clicked enter again by the time that it occurs to him that she might’ve changed her last name if she got married.

The results load almost instantly, and Keith, quite suddenly, realizes that he really doesn’t want to see what will pop up. If anything will at all, because there was just a war, and what if they’re--

Keith closes the tab before he can see the results, bile rising up in his throat for some inexplicable reason. He swallows, closing his eyes, feeling his hands curl into fists where they rest on the table.

 _Recipes,_ he reminds himself firmly. _You’re looking for recipes._

He looks for recipes.

_______________________

In hindsight, bringing his alien mom, specifically Galra mom, to a Korean restaurant in the middle of the postwar recovery period on Earth was perhaps not the brightest idea that Keith has ever had.

But there is jjajangmyun. And it’s good.

It is very, very good.

Keith invited Krolia to join him for lunch on a whim, knowing that he should at least have an idea of what the food he’s looking up recipes for should taste like before helping Hunk make them. Krolia accepted with surprising enthusiasm, making Keith think that she’s been thinking about the amount of time they’ve lost, the things that she’s missed out on, just as he has been.

He’s not angry anymore. Two years has done wonders for the both of them.

It feels a bit empty at the little table that they’ve seated at. The silence is comfortable, though, made that way by two years with nothing but each other and a giant space wolf, and the food is good. Keith is honestly just surprised that this building survived the constant barrage of attacks from Galra warships above, but he’s not complaining.

They’re both clumsy at it, but for some reason or the other, both of them can mostly get by with a pair of chopsticks. Krolia was taught by Keith’s dad, Keith was taught by Shiro. There’s probably a parallel or a metaphor in there that Keith might’ve taken the time to unpack if he were back on that space whale, but he doesn’t have time to burn anymore. Right now, he wants nothing more than to stay present in this moment.

Besides, he’s not exactly the type to give up on something. Perhaps comparing chopsticks with his horrible first experience as the black paladin, back when he chased Lotor single-mindedly, is a little much, but at the moment, Keith would rather die than admit that he probably needs a fork.

He keeps using the chopsticks.

“Your father told me about these,” says Krolia, proud, pointing with her chopsticks to the tiny side dishes they brought out before the noodles. “They’re called _banchan._ They’re served before the meal comes out.”

She says it so wisely, looking so pleased with herself, that it’s impossible for Keith not to grin.

“I can’t believe you know more about an Earthen culture than I do,” says Keith, snorting. The noodles slip off of the tips of his chopsticks. He glares.

Krolia laughs. Traitor.

“I hate to say it,” Krolia says, sobering up a little, “but this tastes better than your father’s. I think he was substituting a few too many ingredients out in that shack.”

“The nearest real grocery store was an hour away,” says Keith. He eyes the kimchi for a moment, then takes a piece. “And I’m pretty sure there’s a certain technique you’ve got to use for the sauce for jjajangmyun. Something about the fire.”

There’s a memory nudging at the back of his head. Keith pauses, lips parting a little. Krolia seems to sense the momentary hesitation, because she looks up fully, hand stilling.

“I think…” Keith feels the corners of his lips begin to pull up. “Huh. Yeah, I was right, back on the space whale. I _have_ had this before. I remember now. He took me to Koreatown, to this tiny little place, and it had a-- a plexiglass window, I’m pretty sure. And there was a guy making noodles behind it, this gigantic thing of dough, and he was _throwing_ it on the table, stretching it out and smacking it against the glass. He threw it at me,” he adds, nodding. “Well, at the plexiglass, but I thought he was going to throw it at me. It was loud when it hit the window. Dad laughed. I think I cried.”

Keith is grinning fully, now, warm with the memory. Krolia looks bewildered.

“What is _plexiglass?”_ she asks. “And what is _Koreatown?_ Your father told me that Korea is a country.”

The waiter comes back at the exact moment to catch the last part of that sentence. He looks taken aback for a few heartbeats, staring between the two of them like he’s forgotten what he came here to do.

It’s probably quite a sight to see. Voltron’s half-Galra Black Paladin, seated in a Korean restaurant with his very Galra, very purple mother. Keith doesn’t blame him for staring.

“Korea is a country,” confirms Keith, nodding. “You’re right about that. But I don’t really want to get into global migration patterns and diasporas right now.”

“Understood,” says Krolia, nodding as well, as serious as though Keith had just given her a full mission report. The waiter fills up their glasses of water silently and proceeds to walk away at a pace akin to fleeing.

Keith hides his laughter into his bowl.

It’s not exactly what he thought his experience with a parent would be like. But then again, nothing in his life is particularly expected.

“Think I know what I’m going to make,” says Keith, nodding to the dishes. “We can probably pick up the side dishes from the markets that have popped up. Bet we’ll find a lot of stuff if we drive into Koreatown.”

“Koreatown,” repeats Krolia. “That is so… strange.”

Keith snickers a little at the sheer amount of confusion on Krolia’s face. She shakes her head, seeming to clear it, before looking directly at Keith again.

“What about the main dish?” she asks.

“Jjajangmyun,” Keith says, shrugging. “It has emotional significance, which is what Hunk wanted. And it’s good.”

“And it’s the only Korean food you’ve actually tried and remembered,” Krolia says, raising an eyebrow. Keith scowls.

“You didn’t have to _say_ it,” he grumbles, definitely not pouting, and Krolia laughs. She reaches out to ruffle his hair.

It’s a little awkward, with Krolia hesitating just slightly before her hand touches his hair, but the pause is too quick to have any real significance, and Keith accepts it without moving away. It’s a new gesture for both of them, and for a moment afterwards, the two of them just sit there, unsure of what to say.

Neither of them are very tactile people. Keith knows, from experience, that their generally standoffish, seemingly cold, unaffectionate behavior is unusual for most people, especially on Earth. He’s also learned that it’s very typical for Galra.

Which makes this all the more awkward. Krolia, showing Keith what would be an unusual amount of affection by Galra standards. Keith, accepting what is a very normal, very typical gesture by human standards, while distinctly aware of both of their own aversion to things like this.

But maybe it’s not so much an aversion as it is unfamiliar.

They’re making up for lost time. And Keith would be lying if he said that he isn’t fighting constant smiles, these days, in Krolia’s presence. She’s trying. So is he. It’s not often enough, but they meet in the middle. It works.

“Love you,” says Keith to Krolia, just because he can, and because it’s true. The words still hurt to say, like he’s pulling a piece of himself out when he speaks, and he thinks it’ll always hurt, no matter who he says it to. But he’s caught up in how normal the moment feels, even though Krolia is an alien, even though Keith is a paladin of Voltron, even though they’re both members of a secret intergalactic spy organization, and he thinks, maybe, if Krolia had helped raise him here on Earth, they might’ve had a similar moment with Keith’s dad at some point. Dinner at a restaurant. Laughing, talking, telling stories. Maybe he would’ve had a sibling.

As it is, it’s just Keith and Krolia in the middle of a Korean restaurant on a planet that nearly perished. Alive. Breathing. As whole as they can be.

And, really, that’s all Keith can ask for.

“Love you, too,” says Krolia, like it’s the easiest thing in the world for her. And maybe it is.

_______________________

“Jjajangmyun? Isn’t that Chinese?”

Keith scowls at Hunk, arms folded. “Korean,” he says flatly, even though the website that he looked at specifically said _Chinese-Korean dish._ He tries again. “It was introduced by the Chinese, and Koreans adapted it to their own cuisine. It’s really popular there. Kind of like fast food with how easy it is to get. But it’s healthy. I think.”

“Okay,” says Hunk placatingly.

“It’s good,” Keith says, because he’s trying to make a point here, and he really doesn’t want to just say it. Hunk looks at him for a moment, considering, like he’s looking at a particularly difficult puzzle to solve.

“You wanna make it?” he asks after a brief pause. And Keith just barely manages to suppress a smile. Judging by the way Hunk has also started to smile, he doesn’t think it works.

“Yeah,” he says.

_______________________

“Let’s go to Koreatown.”

Shiro looks at Keith, then at the datapad in his hand, then back again. He presses his lips together, and Keith can already see the protests building up, the half-hearted excuses.

“You haven’t taken a break since the war ended,” Keith says. “Come on. Hunk is going to be looking for basic ingredients in the marketplace here since it’s bigger, but there’s some stuff that we can’t get here.”

Shiro sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Is it your turn for dinner night?”

“Yeah. Krolia and I had jjajangmyun. It was good.”

“Hm,” says Shiro, and Keith can already see him starting to weaken. He pushes the advantage.

“You can probably find some stuff for your turn,” he pushes. “Besides, when was the last time we hung out together? Alone,” he adds, when Shiro opens his mouth, “without the others. Without work hanging above us.”

Shiro doesn’t respond.

“We can take the hoverbikes,” Keith says.

He can see the exact moment that Shiro breaks.

_______________________

One of the first things that Keith and Shiro did once the war ended was go track down places that were selling hoverbikes. They ended up paying next to nothing for two damaged models, then spent the next few weeks repairing and rebuilding in whatever spare time they could get.

Now, they’re racing in the desert, a blazing afternoon sun high above.

It’s a warm day, and both of them have shed their Garrison-issued uniforms in favor of the most casual clothing that either of them have worn in ages. Shiro, in a white T-shirt and black cargo pants, and Keith, in a black v-neck and dark grey jeans. Shiro’s got his black leather jacket on, too, looking like every inch the man he could’ve been, that he _can_ be, relaxed like Keith hasn’t seen him in years. Relaxed, truly relaxed, without the weight of war and destruction hovering over him.

This is where they belong.

“You’re out of practice, old-timer!” Keith yells over the wind whipping at his cheeks as he shoots past Shiro. Shiro flips him off, shouting something that sounds a lot like _fuck you,_ sounding nothing like the Captain of the Atlas, and Keith laughs, loud and unrestrained.

God, how he’s missed this. Hot sand and dust billowing up in clouds around them, cold wind slicing at their clothes and combing out the tangles of their hair, nothing but the desert and Shiro, the two of them neck and neck, racing like there’s no tomorrow.

Considering the amount of life-threatening situations they’ve been in at this point, hoverbike racing should’ve lost its appeal. But, if anything, it’s gotten even better, the competitive and carefree edge combining with self-preservation instincts that somehow got even worse over their years in space to create something even wilder, even faster, the two of them blazing up to speeds they never would’ve dared to go previously.

It’s _heaven._

“Look!” shouts Shiro. He’s pointing forward, up ahead, and if Keith squints, he can make out the edge of a cliff. Keith catches his eye, and Shiro grins, cocky and sharp.

Keith wouldn’t be able to stop the smile from spreading over his own face if he tried.

“Better catch up,” Keith shouts back, accelerating. He can hear Shiro cursing around his laughter, louder than Keith has heard since before Kerberos, and Keith wishes he could stay right here in this moment forever, summer sun and desert sand, a cliff up ahead and two hoverbikes driven by two young men, unrestrained and carefree.

It makes Keith miss what he never got the chance to have.

Keith drives off the cliff, feeling his stomach drop into his stomach as he lets out a whoop, gasping for breath between laughs.

He lands in time to look over his shoulder and watch Shiro fall, the sun lighting his face like he was born from the stars themselves.

_______________________

“Rooftop Koreans?” mutters Shiro, looking around. He’s grinning, that dumb smile that he makes whenever he knows that he’s being incredibly stupid. It’s unbearably endearing. “More like--”

“Do not,” Keith says. “If you say ‘ground Koreans,’ I’m leaving you here.”

Just like the marketplace near the Garrison, the place that has sprung up in Koreatown is ground-based, shops defined by tarps and tents, blankets laid out to display various wares and products. People are shouting out prices, talking loudly in Earthen and alien languages alike.

It’s a nice day. Sunny, blue skies, clouds as white as Shiro’s hair.

“They’re looking at you,” Shiro says to Keith quietly as they walk down the street, scanning each stand for the ingredients they need. He’s referring to the people openly gaping at them as they pass, some stopping dead in their tracks just to stare, which is practically everyone.

“What?” Keith frowns. “No, they’re looking at you.”

Because, really, how could they not? Shiro looks like something that galaxies would be envious of, embraced by the stars and kissed by cosmic dust. His white hair should make him look decades older, but, if anything, he looks younger, cheeks flushed slightly pink from the heat, eyes like honey in the sunlight. He looks, and there’s no other way to say it, celestial. Walking beside Keith, black hair and knife-sharp in comparison to Shiro’s sun-warmed smiles, it’s definitely Shiro that they’re looking at.

“They’re staring at you,” Shiro says firmly, and Keith can’t quite tell, but it looks like his cheeks gain a little more color to them, “and I don’t like it.”

“Why?” Keith asks, bewildered. Shiro doesn’t respond. “It’s not like we’re in any danger here. Come on, let’s go look for soy sauce.”

The Atlas already has most of the basic ingredients that they need, but they’re still lacking a few essential things. Hunk is going to handle things like onion and pork, as the marketplace by the Garrison has a much wider range of products to choose from, meaning that Keith and Shiro are here for the ingredients specific to the Asian part of this dish.

“Holy shit,” Keith says under his breath, catching Shiro’s attention. He holds up the piece of ginger. “This costs the equivalent of fifty dollars.”

“It’s imported,” says Shiro, shrugging, though his eyes betray his own shock as he does a brief double-take. “Can’t imagine that the world economy is doing particularly well these days.”

Keith pulls out his communicator.

_[Keith: is blowing off fifty dollars for a piece of ginger root worth it]_

_[Hunk: ?????? what the fuck no]_

“Guess not,” says Keith, putting the device away. He didn’t know that Hunk was physically capable of cursing. He’s pleasantly surprised. “Come on. Let’s keep moving.”

They end up paying a ridiculous sum of money for soy sauce and the ever-essential black bean sauce needed for the dish. Shiro manages to find a place selling packaged goods, and because they can’t buy the noodles separately, they pay for ten packets of instant udon. It’s more than they needed, and it racks up the price they pay by quite a bit, but Shiro has that gleam in his eye when he really wants something, and Keith isn’t about to say no to that.

If Shiro also throws in three packets of instant ichiban ramen while Keith is paying, expression completely innocent, Keith pretends not to notice.

Thank fucking god for Garrison money. They can pass this off as a business expense thanks to Hunk pushing this whole dinner night thing as a team bonding exercise.

_[Hunk: got onions, cucumber, zucchini, cabbage, and like the tiniest chunk of pork i’ve ever seen for a crazy amount of money. we’ve got oil and starch and sugar back on the atlas.]_

_[Keith: we got the noodles, soy sauce, black bean sauce, and some side dishes. off topic but do you think lance will cry if we pick up sriracha sauce while we’re here]_

_[Hunk: happy tears? absolutely.]_

“Are we done?” Shiro asks. They’ve filled up the two bags that they brought, and everything is checked off of the mental list. Keith considers for a moment.

“Let’s go get sriracha sauce,” he says.

The ride back to the Garrison is slower than before. Rather than racing each other, as they did on their way to Koreatown, they’re forced to slow down to avoid upending the bags and sending all of their purchases flying across the desert. It’s torturously slow, especially since they can’t talk very well to each other with the wind rushing in their ears, but they make it.

And there’s something about the situation that almost requires this slower pace. They’re riding hoverbikes in the sunset. It feels so, so familiar, nostalgic enough to make Keith almost want to cry. It’s incredible, how they’ve gone so far, to the edges of the universe, and yet they’ve ended up back here, on Earth, riding hoverbikes at sunset.

Neither of them wear helmets, something that Keith really should care more about but doesn’t, so when they finally get back in front of the Atlas, Shiro’s hair is admirably windswept, looking a little like he just rolled out of bed. Keith tries and fails to suppress a laugh, then lets go completely when Shiro _pouts_ at him.

“You’re such a _kid,”_ Keith laughs, shoving him good-naturedly as he walks to unstrap the bag from the back of his hoverbike. He glances up, still grinning, opening his mouth intending to tease a little more, but the words fall in the back of his throat, forgotten, when his eyes land on Shiro.

It really, really shouldn’t be attractive. At all. Shiro’s face is flushed from the heat, clashing in a way with his white hair that shouldn’t work but _does,_ sweat clinging to his shirt and making his muscles stand out more than usual. The moon backlights him in silver, casting him in stark shadow and making him look like he’s glowing. He’s shed his jacket at some point after getting off of the hoverbike, and all Keith can think is _arms._

God, how he’d let Shiro crush him.

He’s been looking at Shiro for so long, lost in his own thoughts, that he doesn’t realize that Shiro is looking at him, too.

The expression is unfamiliar. Soft, yes, and Keith is used to seeing that look on his face, but there’s something different under there. Something darker, a little more intense.

He doesn’t get the chance to place it, because Shiro seems to catch himself right at that moment. He looks up, meeting Keith’s gaze, and his eyes go huge.

For a moment, the two of them just stand there, beneath the moon, beside their hoverbikes, with two bags of groceries. Looking at each other.

“We should, um,” Shiro says abruptly, looking away. He avoids eye contact, busying himself with the bag still strapped to the back of his hoverbike, and even in the darkness with his face hidden away, Keith can see how red his ears are. “We should get-- get back to the Atlas and put this away.”

There’s an odd sound, like metal tearing. Shiro freezes.

Slowly, he straightens up.

“Did you just--” Keith stares. “Did you just… break the lock on the strap?”

In Shiro’s Altean palm sits the unmistakable remnants of what was once a very solid, very strong lock. The two of them stare.

“Still getting used to the arm,” Shiro says after a moment, his tone not convincing in the slightest. “Uh. Could you…”

“I’ve got it,” Keith says. He walks over to hoverbike and undoes the rest of the straps. He hands Shiro the bag with a sharp grin, and because of how close Shiro is to the hoverbike, they end up quite a bit closer than normal.

“Almost feels like you’re showing off your strength, Captain,” Keith teases. “Got someone to impress?”

Shiro’s eyes go _huge,_ comically wide. For a moment, he splutters, wordless, and Keith smirks. But because he’s Shiro, he recovers quickly, and he makes a show of looking around, over his shoulder and to the sides, before looking back at Keith with a small smile, the slight pink in his cheeks the only hint of his previous reaction.

“Don’t see anyone else here,” he says, lips tugging up. “Only person I’ve got to impress has seen the worst parts of me, anyways.”

“Doesn’t mean he can’t still be surprised from time to time,” Keith says, shrugging. And Shiro really is so close right now, close enough that Keith would just have to get on the tips of his toes to press his lips to Shiro’s.

He licks his bottom lip out of habit. And he’s probably imagining it, but he swears that Shiro’s eyes dart down to follow the movement.

"Keith," says Shiro, quiet.

"Shiro," says Keith. Shiro hesitates for a moment, lingering. Keith can hear him breathing.

Then he steps back. The moment breaks, cold air flooding the space where Shiro’s warmth had been. Keith exhales, and it comes out a little shaky. He feels… lost, somehow, like he’s just missed out on something.

“Let's get to the kitchen," Shiro says, and Keith nods, because that's what he's supposed to do.

No one is in the kitchen when they get to the Atlas, of course, because of how late it is. They put all of their purchases on the counter with a hastily scribbled note by Keith that says, _“do not touch: property of the black paladins.”_

Shiro laughs when Keith shows him, though there’s a touch of melancholy in his expression, like he’s not quite sure what to make of it. Keith, before he can overthink it, reaches out and squeezes Shiro’s shoulder.

“You’re still Black’s, too,” he says firmly. “That hasn’t changed. We’re both hers.”

Shiro looks away, pressing his lips together. Keith’s grip tightens on his shoulder.

“I don’t want to bring down the mood,” Shiro says at last, quietly. He forces a smile, looking back at Keith. “But you’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Nope,” Keith says. “We can talk about this another time. But we’re hers.”

“We’re hers,” Shiro agrees. And he doesn’t quite sound like he believes it yet, but it’s a start.

_______________________

It feels appropriate to invite Krolia to help with the cooking, so Keith does just that. Hunk has already stated, multiple times, that he’s just there to make sure that they don’t accidentally burn the Atlas down, and Shiro is much too busy with handling responsibilities, responsibilities that Keith is very much neglecting. This leaves Keith and Krolia as the two dominant forces in the kitchen.

What they lack in skill and experience, they make up for with sheer determination. Privately, Keith is scared to death that he’s going to mess everything up, and he thinks that Krolia is, too, because they both work in silence, expressions screwed up in their focus. Keith catches Krolia with her tongue poking out slightly at one point, and for a moment, he goes completely still out of shock, because he was doing the exact same thing not even two seconds earlier.

“I’ve got the noodles cooked,” Keith says, once the boiling water has been poured down the sink and the strained noodles sit in a metal bowl. He put the udon soup packets somewhere else for Shiro to find them later. Krolia is chopping vegetables, a bowl of onions already sitting beside the collection of sliced cucumbers. “I’ll get started on frying the sauce.”

“Vegetables go into the sauce once you’re done,” Krolia says. “So does the pork.”

“Got it.”

“You’re treating this like a battle,” Hunk says from the sidelines, definitely not holding a fire extinguisher. He sounds a bit awed. “Like mother, like son.”

Keith flips him off.

The smell that fills the room is absolutely heavenly. Soy sauce and cooked vegetables and pork, the steam from the noodles, the black bean sauce sitting in the little plastic container, half-opened. Hunk helps Keith put the noodles into nine different bowls as Krolia pours the sauce into a bowl with a ladle.

“Top it off with cucumbers,” says Keith tersely, pointing to the sliced cucumbers while Krolia spoons a generous portion of the sauce over the noodles. “Don’t screw it up.”

Hunk makes a face at Keith. “Seriously?” he says. “You’re underestimating _my_ ability for presentation, Keith?”

“Sorry. Just… stressed.”

Hunk pauses. Krolia glances over her shoulder.

“What do you mean?” asks Hunk. “You’re stressed? This is supposed to be cathartic. What’s up?”

“No, I’m--” Keith sighs, hands stilling. He looks down at the bowl in front of him, white noodles and dark brown sauce, onions and pork and zucchini with sliced cucumbers on top. The noodles are a bit too thick to be the right kind, but other than that, it’s quite similar to what he had at the restaurant with Krolia. “I just want to get this right. Feels like… like a tribute to my dad, I guess. I don’t know. It’s stupid. I’m just worried it’ll be messed up.”

Krolia chuckles. Keith doesn’t look up. “Keith,” she says, surprisingly fond. “Your father’s version of this was terrible compared to the one we had at the restaurant. I don’t know how I ate it. To be honest, the worse it is, the more of a tribute it will be to him.”

“Besides,” Hunk jumps in. “The fact that you’re making it at all is more than enough. It’s symbolic, you know? You’re reconnecting with your dad’s culture.”

“He’d be proud,” says Krolia softly, and Keith’s head jerks up at last. Krolia is looking at him with a quiet sort of smile on her face, subtle but impossible to miss. It’s the smile that Keith knows that he wears, that he gives to the people that he loves, and it shouldn’t feel so surprising to know that Krolia feels that way about him, but it is. “He always talked about taking you there one day, you know. His sisters both moved there after their parents died. He was talking about reconnecting with them before I had to leave.”

“I don’t know if he ever did,” Keith says quietly. “I should-- I don’t even know if they’re alive.”

Krolia walks over to him, gently taking his hands. It’s a little startling, at first, the physical contact, but Keith finds himself relaxing almost instantly.

“Do you want to know?” she asks. Hunk has retreated a little further away, likely recognizing the privacy of the moment. Keith hesitates.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I feel like I should, but I don’t know if I want to. What would they-- What would I even say to them?”

Krolia squeezes his hand. Her eyes are soft when Keith meets them, radiating nothing but warmth. “Let’s go to Korea,” she says. “We don’t have to meet them, but I think I’d like to go to this country. We can do what your father wanted us to do together.”

“Yeah?” asks Keith.

“Yeah.”

Keith presses his lips together, whether suppressing tears or a smile, he’s not quite sure. Before he can question himself, he slowly wraps his arms around Krolia, burying his face into her shoulder. Krolia accepts without hesitation, like she was waiting all along.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she says, the smile audible in her voice.

_______________________

Dinner is an unquestionable success.

Everyone seems to recognize the significance of the meal, because there are visible expressions of surprise when Hunk reveals that Keith and Krolia did this one. Keith explains, and the realization that comes over their faces so quickly is almost ridiculous in how simultaneous it is.

And they _like_ it. They like the food.

And Keith tries it, and he likes it, too. It tastes… good. Not quite like what they had at the restaurant, but it’s edible, and it tastes really, really good.

“Pressure is on for my turn,” Shiro says with a smile, leaning across Keith for easier access to the side dishes. Keith does not think about the fact that he could’ve just used his Altean arm to grab the dish instead of leaning over him. He doesn’t. Not at all. “You all set the bar pretty high for emotionally significant dinners.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Pidge chose fast food,” he reminds him. “That’s not emotionally significant at all.”

“Both Pidge and Lance cried because they hadn’t had cheeseburgers in years,” Shiro says. “Then we got into that whole conversation about being away from home, how our definition of home has changed, the feeling of being away from your planet… And now you’ve showed up with this absolutely insane meal, full of identity exploration and family and cultural heritage--”

“Alright, old-timer,” grumbles Keith, pointedly ignoring the heat in his cheeks. “Point taken.”

“You still know how to use chopsticks,” Shiro notes, and of course that’s the exact moment that Keith fumbles.

“I’m surprised I still remember,” Keith admits, pretending like he didn’t almost just splinter the chopsticks into pieces. “Thought I would’ve forgotten by now. Guess you taught me well.”

“We should go back to that Japanese restaurant sometime,” Shiro says musingly, tapping his chopsticks on the edge of the bowl. He throws Keith an easy smile. “Hopefully it’s still standing. I didn’t get to try their katsu last time.”

Shiro turns his attention back to his food. Keith pauses, thinking.

The table is full of laughter and chatter. Krolia and Coran, of all people, have started up a conversation, one that seems to have both of them deeply engaged as Coran’s exuberant hand motions have made an appearance. Allura and Romelle are bent over a book that looks like the English dictionary, sounding out words with deep frowns on their faces. Lance, Pidge, and Hunk are laughing loudly, cracking jokes and gossiping about various members of the Atlas crew.

And Shiro sits beside Keith. Hand on his shoulder, where it’s always been, where it always belongs. Where he hopes it always will be.

This is his family.

The realization is probably a bit late, he realizes. But now, it hits him full force, unflinching and unmovable. This is his family, and they’re having dinner together, just like families do. They’re together, and the war is over, and everything is okay.

They’re home.

Keith taps his fingers on the table, considering. He looks over at Shiro, who’s watching Allura and Romelle argue over the particular pronunciation of a word with great amusement.

“Hey, Shiro?” he asks quietly, and it really shouldn’t be loud enough for Shiro to hear if he wasn’t listening, but he looks over anyways.

“Yeah?” asks Shiro, and _god,_ how Keith would conquer empires for that smile.

“Krolia and I were… talking,” he says. He shifts slightly in his chair, feeling heat climb into his cheeks. “We’re going to go to Korea at some point. Just to visit. Maybe to find my dad’s sisters, see if they’re alive.”

Shiro blinks. His smile widens, eyes sparkling. “That’s amazing,” he says genuinely. “I’m so excited for you guys; that sounds--”

“Do you want to come with us?”

The words come out steady and smooth, a sharp contrast to how fast his heart is racing, the way his hands clench and unclench beneath the table on top of his thighs, leg bouncing with nerves. On the surface, he knows he looks calm, collected. But Shiro knows him well, knows all of his tells and all of the subtleties in his expressions, and maybe he can tell how nervous he is.

But maybe not. Right now, he just looks shocked.

“Me?” he asks. “I-- Really?”

“You don’t have to,” Keith says quickly, even though all he really wants to say is something cheesy like _who else but you?_ “Just, uh. Because Japan’s right there, too, you know? And I’d-- I’d want you by my side if I did decide to go figure out what happened to Dad’s sisters. I can’t think of anyone else I’d want with me.”

The last part rings a little too true. Shiro blinks.

And a smile begins to spread across his face.

“Keith,” he says, and he says his name like it’s a wonder of the world, like it holds more meaning than the universe itself, and Keith would _shatter_ for this man, would destroy galaxies and topple regimes for him. “Keith, I’m-- Yes, of course. I’d love to go.”

Keith reaches out, then, grasping Shiro’s hand. Shiro squeezes back.

“Okay,” says Keith. He knows that he’s grinning stupidly at him, but Shiro is smiling back at him with just as much fondness. “Okay, yeah.”

“Yeah,” says Shiro. “I’ll put in a leave request tomorrow. Just let me know when.”

“Okay,” Keith says again, because that seems like the only thing he’s capable of saying at the moment. Shiro laughs, squeezing his hand again, and Keith squeezes back.

The others are watching them out of the corner of their eyes. Keith can feel them looking, waiting, but he really doesn’t care.

He could say it. He could tell Shiro again, tell him here, with their family around them, food on the table, the war long over. He’s still not sure if Shiro remembers his words at the clone facility, or if those memories died with the clone’s consciousness.

But he doesn’t say it.

One day, he will. One day, he’ll remind Shiro, will say the words to _him,_ to his consciousness, in a moment full of peace and contentment, if only to take back what the war has stolen from them. Because Shiro deserves to know, even if he doesn’t love him back, that Keith would do anything for him. That he has someone he can trust, can rely on, can fall back on when things become too much, and that he won’t expect anything in return. Because their lives have been full of debt and death and destruction, and of all people, Shiro deserves a moment to breathe, and _god,_ how Keith wants to be the one to give him that moment. He wants to spend the rest of his life with him. Maybe more.

And he thinks, maybe, that Shiro might let him.

For now, though, he turns back to the rest of the table, and, immediately, seven pairs of guilty eyes dart away from them. Keith throws Hunk a nasty look when he gives Keith a meaningful eyebrow raise, but Hunk just laughs, the bastard.

Keith’s hand stays in Shiro’s for the rest of the meal. Shiro’s stays in Keith’s. They don’t let go of each other.

It’s nice. This is nice.

The war is over, and Keith is home.

**Author's Note:**

> may do a part two? who knows. definitely not me.
> 
> kogane doesn't sound like a korean last name, but i googled keith's ethnicity, freaked out, and now i'm projecting. let me live.
> 
> this piece was an incredibly personal one to write, and i was honestly a little nervous to post it because of that. i'm not sure if this will resonate with you in the same way and to the same level that it did with me? but love is a universal language, no matter what form it takes, and i like to think that this one captures the essence of that pretty okay. hopefully? ah, whatever. it was fun to write. i had a blast.
> 
> i hope that you enjoyed !! comments mean the world to me, and i'd absolutely love to hear your thoughts <3 <3
> 
> [tumblr](https://aerixlee.tumblr.com/) || [twitter](https://twitter.com/aerixlee/) << am only just starting to actually use twitter, so bear with me !! my tumblr is more atla centered, and my twitter is (going to be) more vld :)


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